


Spirit Squared

by Feynite



Series: Looking Glass Alternate Universe Madness [5]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Crossover, F/M, Looking Glass, Madness, The Dread Wolf's Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 16:55:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6528313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would happen if the spirit-y version of Lavellan from The Dread Wolf's Heart had gone back in time and met the spirit version of Solas aka Pride?</p><p>This insanity!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

What kind of spirit is _that?_ Pride wonders. 

She is gleaming, emerald and bright, like himself. Drifting through the Dreaming. Much of her feels… alike to him. But different, too. As if power spilled into her and was reshaped by her; held in the palm of her hand, and woven into something that both was and was not part of some grand and complex being. Not like a regular spirit. Not like a dreamer. Something else.

Something not seen here, before.

She looks lost.

And she _feels_  lost, as if she has been swept up in a storm that has stolen everything from her. Crippled her pride and crushed her dreams, untethered her from her moorings, and then dropped her here.

Perhaps Pride can help.

It drifts in closer, peering at the outline of her features. Her shape, very like an elven woman. The beacon of light anchored in her palm, and spreading, gleaming, throughout the rest of her. The places where she wisps off, dispersing and unfocused, as if parts of her keep trying to slip away.

“Greetings,” Pride offers.

She halts, and looks it’s way.

Something in her gaze holds an undeniable pull.

“… _Hello_ ,” she returns. The word she uses is unfamiliar, but the intent carries through.

“Are you lost?” Pride wonders. Though the answer seems obvious. It is a courtesy to ask.

“ _Yes_ ,” she admits. “ _I do not know where I am or what has happened to me. Everything has become strange_.”

Her unease is palpable. And she has begun to draw attention from other spirits, as well. Some of less friendly, or more opportunistic dispositions.

“Perhaps I can help?” Pride suggests, extending a hand in offering towards her.

She hesitates, a moment.

“ _And what would be the cost of your help?_ ” she wonders.

Ah.

It had not considered that.

A testament to how fascinated it is. But then, that is a sort of payment in and of itself.

“I ask nothing in return for it,” Pride magnanimously asserts.

The strange spirit hesitates, a moment longer. Then carefully places her slender hand - the brightest one - inside of it’s own. She still seems a little uncertain. But also as if she is greatly drawn in, too.

The touch of her palm is like the breaking of dawn.

The light gleams. The air shines. The Dreaming ripples, and a surge of power rushes between them. A massive wave cresting through both of their beings. It shocks them in equal measure. 

In the next instant, however, the strange spirit’s form solidifies much further. The wispy edges of her sharpen, and her features become far more distinct. Ripples of light cascade down her limbs. Where their hands meet, there is warmth; and where the light spreads, her form settles.

Pride blinks.

Assesses.

It has no idea what has just happened.

But for some reason, even as the strange spirit hastily retracts her hand, it feels a surge of giddy excitement.

_Wow._


	2. Changes

She is in the past.

The very, very _distant_  past.

The _ancient_  past.

Or this is all a dream. Or this is what death is, perhaps - returning at some nebulous point in time as a spirit, destined to watch the cycles of history repeat. Although she thinks if that’s the case, then a wire must have gotten crossed somewhere, because none of the other spirits have seen or heard of anything like her before.

“I think you are confused,” the Spirit of Pride decides.

This is a fair conclusion to draw, really. She _is_  confused. There is a lot of confusion to go around. In between the grief and pain of essentially being dead, it’s pretty much her primary emotion at the moment.

“Okay,” she decides. “I’m definitely that.”

Pride nods. Sagely.

It has been, perhaps, one of the strangest parts of this whole endeavour. She’s encountered plenty of Pride _demons_ , of course. But never a spirit; never a benevolent manifestation of the sentiment. And yet, there’s no denying that this is what Pride is. Ever since her arrival, it’s been shockingly helpful, and kind, and not even in a fashion that would raise potential alarm bells. It’s offered to help and then only, so far as she can tell, earnestly tried to.

And of course there’s the whole thing with… the touching. And the, uh, subsequent light show and surges of energy and whatnot.

She has no idea what to make of that.

Except that Pride is made of the same sort of light that suffuses her entire being, now. The light of the anchor.

The light created by the foci.

Which ostensibly were used to channel _ancient gods._  Except that Pride isn’t a god - and neither is _Mythal,_  from what she’s seen. A queen among the elves, perhaps. Revered and respected. But not holy. So it makes her wonder what the orb Corypheus used really was. It makes her wonder how one might be made, and if powerful spirits could be involved…

It makes her worried.

She meets Mythal only once, at first.

“What manner of spirit are you?” the woman asks her, a line between her brows as she stares. Passing between reality and the Fade is ludicrously easy in this time; though the Fade, she finds, is bright and vivid and _close,_  whereas reality always feels just a little bit like she’s looking at everything through a glass pane.

“I am…” _I am not a spirit,_  she wants to say. _I am from the future. I met you there, once. You were betrayed, and you were killed. You were broken and in the body of an old human woman._

 _“_ I am unsure,” is what she says.

Mythal raises an eyebrow.

“Why does it speak so strangely?” the would-be goddess asks Pride.

“I do not know. Her meaning comes across, though,” Pride replies. “She does not know what she is.”

This takes Mythal aback, for a moment.

“I wonder what happened to cause _that,”_ the woman murmurs.

But apparently, sometimes traumatic or strange experiences can have odd effects on spirits. Her ‘lack’ of identity is soon chalked up to some mysterious happenstance. She is offered a place among Mythal’s hosts, the elves and spirits that keep her company. 

Given her ‘unpredictable’ nature, some areas of both the Fade and reality are barred to her, but apart from that, she finds herself largely unrestricted.

There are worse places to spend an afterlife, she supposes.

The ancient elves are a strange bunch, but not unfriendly. Their emotions spill into the very air around them. They are immortal, just like in the stories. Just as Solas once said, in fact, and she finds it impossible not to think of him as she drifts through their ranks, beholding the wonders of her people’s history. All the glory they will lose. A richness of existence she had never thought to see for herself. Magic and artistry and boundless time; and yet, still it seems burdened by the weight of conflict. The elves caught in the midst of a civil war.

It’s still a far cry from ruins and dreams.

Solas, she thinks, would have adored it. To such an extent that it almost seems unfair that she is experiencing it without him. Though, on balance, she’s still happier with the thought that somewhere in the future, he is alive and well.

And though she misses the people she left behind, at least she doesn’t lack for company.

There are the elves, of course. Who become especially talkative once she figures out how to speak more elvhen, and can rely less on conveying intentions and translating through Pride. Many of them attempt to ‘help’ her ‘recover’ from whatever has happened to her. Many more offer to demonstrate things, or explain them. Some take it upon themselves to try and figure out what sort of spirit she might be. Her odd connection to Pride is a source of great speculation. And interacting with them is an engaging experience, as they seem to live and breathe their feelings so well. She finds herself drawn in, fascinated, as she examines the emotions that swirl around them. All the colour and nuance of it. Floating through both layers of existence, like a wind that can touch either at will.

But then there are the spirits, too. Pride, chiefly, but more than Pride. There is Compassion, who reminds her of Cole. Who is - unsurprisingly - kind, and receptive to her disjointed feelings. There is Curiosity, who seems unerringly fixated upon the mystery of her being. Sorrow, who weaves in closely, at times - but not quite with the same inexplicable kindred nature as Pride.

And there is Rage, who mostly keeps at a distance; but occasionally regards her with some interest.

They aren’t like the spirits of her time. Or, maybe they are, and she’s just never had a chance to properly appreciate all the nuances that spirits are capable of before. Dwelling on it too long makes her think of Solas, inevitably; and dwelling on Solas for too long makes her think of unanswerable questions, and everything she’s lost.

The melancholy turns of her mood always seem to distress Pride.

“You are not a Pride spirit,” it tells her, once, in the midst of one such moment. It seems he is attempting to reassure her. “There is pride in you, but it is not everywhere. You do not have too many follies, I think. You are safe.”

“Safe?” she asks, blinking.

Pride shifts a little. 

“Pride is not… safe,” it says.

She thinks of demons. Massive and towering, laughing in disdain as their whips crack through the air. As they tear forth from rifts, and wreak havoc on their surroundings.

But those were corrupted. And any spirit can be corrupted, under the right circumstances. Like Solas’ friend, Wisdom. Though she supposes it must be especially frightening to be a thing that shares the same name as the corrupted versions of others.

“Are you in danger from something?” she finds herself wondering.

Pride blinks. Then it seems to consider the question.

“Only my own nature,” it decides. “But that is why I am trying to change it.”

“You’re… _trying_  to change your nature?” she asks, a little alarmed. Pride’s a spirit. If it changes, wouldn’t that mean becoming a demon? But it seems afraid of that prospect. Unless she’s misunderstanding?

“Spirits of Wisdom sometimes corrupt into Pride,” it explains to her. “I was corrupted from the beginning, though. But maybe, if I can become wise enough, I could change into a Spirit of Wisdom instead. Then I would not be so dangerous, I think.”

She stares at the beautiful spirit, drifting through the Fade alongside of her. The shifting light of it, granting her solidity when she was frail. Like a beacon of strength and reassurance.

“I feel safe with you,” she declares. “I don’t think you’re corrupted at all.”

Pride only shakes it’s head at her, though.

“That is because you are special,” it tells her.

Perhaps, she thinks, she’s not the only lost and uncertain spirit around here.

“Or maybe it’s because _you_  are,” she suggests. On a whim, then, she reaches out, and closes her hand around Pride’s. The light flares and gleams. A beautiful dance that makes everything feel sharper. Clearer. Makes her feel grounded, and almost real again. At her side, the spirit feels as solid and sound as any being of flesh and blood.

Pride stares at her in surprise for a moment.

Then it curls its own grip more firmly around her own. Tapered fingers slide gently through hers.

“You are perfect exactly as you are,” she promises.

Her words summon a rush of warmth in the air. A cascade of affection, and something more. Something brighter. Something _hopeful,_ but tiny, like embers sparking in the depths of ruby red eyes. 

The spirit at her side trembles and shifts, and then leans closer still, and brushes it’s free hand just gently across her cheek.

“Thank you,” it says.

She smiles.


	3. Corruption

It is peaceful, this afterlife. With Pride, and the other spirits, and the ancient elves. Mythal’s gardens and palace, wonders and dreams, and so many things to behold and contemplate. It feels like healing, to be here. In some ways it’s like a dream to come true. Something she never thought to see or be a part of, made open to her by some strange quirk of fate.

She should have known it couldn’t last.

“Where is Pride?” she asks Curiosity one morning. It’s been a while since she saw her favourite spirit. Not since Pride had vowed to go and discover more about the matter of… well. Soulmates. She had figured that he’d sequestered himself away in the library, but when she arrives, she can’t find any sign of him.

“I do not know. I have not seen Pride for days,” Curiosity admits, flitting down from one of the balconies. “I thought it would be with you. It generally is, now.”

She feels a spark of worry, and shakes her head.

“No. I have not seen Pride for few days either,” she admits.

Fortunately, Curiosity is a good spirit to approach when there is a mystery to seek answers to. It glows a little brighter, and then beckons her, and they set off throughout the palace. They find Rage on the training field, and it directs them towards Sorrow. Who has not seen Pride either, but tells them that Compassion is in the lower levels of the palace; and if there is a single spirit who knows most of the goings-on of this part of the Dreaming, then it is Compassion. They head down, slipping through mesmerizing tiled floors and brilliantly bright rugs, weaving in and out of the Dreaming until at last Curiosity catches sight of Compassion’s soft glow, and they find their target.

And Pride, too.

The both of them come up short at the sight of a gleaming barrier cage. Compassion lingers outside of a small room. It is bright and airy, with comforting whorls and plants painted along the walls, and gentle fountains burbling at the back of it. But it is also filled with energized runes, that it seems none of them can bypass.

Pride is inside of the room. Trapped. Caged; obviously deliberately.

“What’s going on?” she asks, getting as close as she can. The beautiful emerald spirit looks up at the sound of her voice. Its six ruby eyes widen for a moment, before drooping a little. It moves closer, in turn. Right until it’s up by the barrier itself. But then it becomes clear that it can’t get through, either. It really is trapped.

“I am sorry,” Pride says.

“Elgar’nan has demanded a tribute,” Compassion tells them, in a low, remorseful tone of voice. “Mythal has chosen Pride.”

“Oh no!” Curiosity exclaims, vibrating with distress.

Her own alarm increases exponentially.

“What tribute? What is going on?” she asks.

Pride lifts a hand, and presses it to the barrier in front of her. Its mouth lifts, approximating a smile; but the gesture is unconvincing.

“It is alright,” Pride says, quietly. “It is better if it is me. This way, no one else will be chosen. I am not a safe a spirit. Mythal is only trying to make the wisest decision she can. I understand.”

“Elgar’nan will sacrifice Pride to help keep the foundation of Arlathan strong,” Compassion explains, gently.

She freezes, her mind turning the words and explanations she’s hearing over in her mind, but rebelling against comprehension. No. How could that be? Sacrifice…? For Arlathan? No. No, that isn’t right. That can’t be right. She knows this time and this culture, this strange place that’s almost worlds away from what she knows, has its problems. But to simple _kill_ Pride? To have Mythal give them away, as if she owns their life, and to have Elgar’nan…?

“No!” she objects, turning to look frantically between the spirits around her. “No, that cannot be right! Pride, you cannot die!”

“It is alright,” Pride repeats. “Someone must do this. Arlathan is important. Elvhenan is important. It is fitting for me, you see? I can help the People this way, without endangering them. And everyone can be safe. It will be a long, long time before another spirit is needed for this. Mythal says my strength should be enough to last for centuries.”

No.

No, this cannot be happening.

“But… but what about being my soulmate?” she tries, turning frantic.

Pride wavers, a little. It looks down.

“It might hurt you if I shatter, I know. You should probably be far away when it happens. That could help,” it says.

“Of course it will hurt me! It will hurt no matter where I am!” she insists. She presses back towards the barrier, looking for any cracks in the magic that she could exploit. Any places where she could weaken it, or break through. But even if she could, she thinks, could she get Pride to flee with her? Under the circumstances, it seems depressingly set upon letting itself be killed.

But she cannot let that happen. In the time she has spent here, she… she has come to love Pride, she thinks. Whether they are soulmates like it thinks or if this is all just a fluke, as she believes, it doesn’t matter. She loves this strange, wondrous spirit. The thought of seeing it break makes something inside of her wrench horribly. It makes the light of her wane, and waver, and makes her want to curl in upon herself.

“Do not let it twist you,” Pride pleads, pressing both of its hand against the barrier. It looks at her as if it wishes it could touch her. She finds she desperately wants the same; to have that anchoring burst of contact. “You are full of good and noble things. You must hold onto them, no matter what happens. Please.”

She stares in the wide, gleaming red of its eyes.

No.

This will not happen.

With a burst of her own green light, she speeds back up through the palace. Curiosity follows her. Up she goes, and then through the gardens, searching fiercely for a particular gleam and light; a presence bright in both the Dreaming and beyond. The other spirit is a blue light on her tail, twisting and turning in her wake. When at last she finds what she’s looking for, she stops in her tracks, and the two of them nearly collide.

Mythal sits in one of her private gardens, conversing with two of her generals. She is dressed in a red gown that looks like it has been made of rustling autumn leaves; each one painted with gold across the veins, and studded with tiny amber gems. There isn’t much of the Witch of the Wilds in her at the moment. But she hopes the bargaining nature is still there.

“What are you doing?” Curiosity wonders.

“Trying to save Pride,” she replies.

Then she descends down into the garden.

The elves look up in surprise as she weaves her way out of the Dreaming. The echoes and memories that linger around the garden fade, leaving it to clear into the reality of the present moment, and the figures occupying it. Mythal is the only one who doesn’t seem a little taken aback by her sudden arrival.

“Stray Spirit,” the evanuris greets, placidly.

“My lady,” she returns, with a bow.

For a moment, golden eyes regard her. Then the evanuris raises a hand, and dismisses her two attendants. They withdraw with little fuss, leaving the rest of them to the privacy of the secluded spot. A small waterfall chimes as it runs in the back of the garden; clear water splashing over a crystal base. Stray leaves drift across the breeze. The scene looks like a painting.

“Please do not sacrifice Pride,” she asks.

Mythal continues to regard her. She tilts her head, slightly. But her gaze does soften, some.

“You and Pride have an unexpected attachment. I understand your desire to see it unharmed,” the evanuris says. “But you must understand my own position in return. This sacrifice is needed. Pride is a dangerous spirit, and also a strong one. It is perfectly suited to what must be done. Its threat is ended with its death, and Arlathan’s continuation is ensured. Its willing and noble sacrifice will mean no other spirit must suffer in its place.”

She wants to scream.

“Pride is not dangerous!” she protests. “You wished it to take a body, did you not? Why would you ask that if you knew this was coming, and thought it necessary?”

Mythal sighs.

“Because I, too, would not like to see Pride broken,” the evanuris admits. “I wished it to take a body, yes. If it had, then it would not be faced with this fate. But it did not. It knew this time was coming too, you see. And a powerful spirit would be chosen for sacrifice. Preferably one whose presence would not be terribly missed. Not a corrupted one, for that might compromise the purity of the city’s foundations. But an addled one, perhaps. A new spirit who had not had much time to gain friends or allies. It worried, and so it did not take a body, because it could not stand the chance that I would choose… another it had grown fond of for this sacrifice.”

She stills. The ghost of her old heartbeat seems to turn to ice in her chest. Curiosity stares between them, all four of its eyes wide.

“You mean to tell me that Pride is doing this… because otherwise it would be _me?”_ she demands.

Mythal closes her eyes.

“I do not wish this fate upon either of you. But it falls to us to make these decisions. You are an obvious choice. Pride wished to ensure I would not make it.”

She takes a moment, considering that. Turning the idea over and over in her head. Looking at the angles of this problem; though in the very instant she hears of it, she thinks, she knows what she has to do. The only thing she _can_ do, under the circumstances.

“Then let it be me,” she says.

“Oh no,” Curiosity breathes, softly.

“Spirit. My Pride has come to care deeply for you. Your destruction will affect it. It may even twist it past the point of corruption,” Mythal reasons.

“Then do not tell it,” she replies. “Say something else has happened. Say I have left, to try and flee the consequences of its death, but that plans have changed. Tell it I have gone away on a quest. Keep it safe. But let me go in its stead.” She is already supposed to have died. She should have, before she ever came back here. This has been amazing, she thinks. This has been more than she ever expected. Perhaps that’s all it could be, in the end. Just a reprieve from the inevitable.

She’ll be grateful for it, and go to her death with more peace in her heart for having come here, and seen all of this – even the ugly parts – and for having come to know Pride. To feel that surge of connection upon joining hands with it.

“…Pride was right. You are noble,” Mythal determines.

She shakes her head.

“No less noble than Pride itself,” she argues. “You care about it, don’t you? Let me do this, then. Just as you intended to. I will go freely.”

Mythal seems to waver, but only for a moment. But then nods in agreement.

“Very well. It will be done. I will do what I can for Pride. No lie I can tell will suffice; but I may yet come upon a solution. Your sacrifice will not be in vain,” the evanuris promises.

“Swear to me that Pride will be safe,” she demands.

Shrewd golden eyes lock with her own. After a moment, Mythal stands from her garden bench, and strides towards her. They stand across from one another for a long, quiet time. The air feels tense. The Dreaming seems to ripple with anticipation, and the importance of the moment.

Curiosity is quiet.

“I swear to you that the Spirit of Pride will not be shattered,” Mythal promises. “Now will you swear to sacrifice yourself for the good of Arlathan? To attempt no escape, nor deviation from this path?”

She shudders. The light in her dims for a moment.

This is it, she supposes.

“I swear.”

~

She doesn’t see Pride again, before she goes.

He stays in his little room. She doesn’t know what Mythal will do to keep it safe, but she can feel the binding nature of the agreement between them sitting there, like an invisible tether. She thinks she’d know if it was broken. She can tell, too, somehow, that when one end of this bargain is completed, then failing to uphold the other would result in a great deal of backlash for the other party involved.

It’s strangely reassuring. Her death is guaranteed; but so is Pride’s life. It holds her better than any cage could, really. Mythal doesn’t bother to restrain her at all. The evanuris merely calls for her when some of Elgar’nan’s people come. Warriors carrying impressive-looking weapons, and dressed in gleaming armour. There’s a little more variation between them than she typically sees among Mythal’s people. Two of them have actual fire for hair, it seems. A third is smaller than the rest; very lovely, but deceptively round and soft, she thinks, considering the massive axe she’s carrying around.

“This is the spirit,” Mythal tells them. “It need not be bound. It will go willingly enough.”

Elgar’nan’s people look a little curious. But they seem to accept Mythal’s assurances. She goes with them, as promises, casting on one look back to the palace before following them through the light of the eluvian. The Crossroads are a bit strange as a spirit. Or maybe they’re just strange in general, now, considering how the world has changed. Elaborate statues and paths weave through the in-between space. She goes with her guides to the gleaming spires of Arlathan, which shine in the early morning light, and takes a moment to stare at the revered city.

The one she’ll die for.

She doesn’t have much time to linger, though, before Elgar’nan’s people lead her to a lovely estate, and past several wide, echoing chambers, until they put her in a room not dissimilar to the one Pride had been in at Mythal’s palace. This one is ringed in fire, though. She supposes it’s standard procedure; the whole process has the feel of that.

They wait until she’s in the room, and then they leave.

And she is trapped, and alone.

Slowly, she drifts towards the floor. She wonders if this was always meant to happen. If it’s been an unknown part of her history, all this time, that she once went back and died for Arlathan. Futures can be changed. She knows that. She changed one herself. But maybe this couldn’t be. Or maybe it has been; maybe her presence here means that Pride will not be sacrificed, and maybe Pride… maybe he will change fate, too, somehow. Maybe Elvhenan will not fall quite so spectacularly. Maybe the world will be a slightly better place, for all of this.

That’s a heartening thought.

She tries to hang onto it as time passes. Eventually one of the fire-haired guards comes, and looks at her for a moment, and then leaves again. Sometime after that, the smaller, rounder one comes, and does the same.

Or, rather, seems about to. But at the last minute, the unusual-looking elf pauses, and leans against her axe instead.

The two of them consider one another for a moment.

“My name is Desire,” the guard says, at length.

She blinks, not having expected an introduction. Or many pleasantries at all, really. It’s been her experience that it’s difficult for people to maintain their detachment when they start chatting with the prisoners.

“What sort of spirit are you?” Desire wonders, tilting her head.

“I… don’t really know,” she admits.

That gets the usual surprised reaction.

“There must be quite a story behind all of this,” Desire decides. “Some spirits come to this fate willingly, but even they usually need to be restrained a bit. Mythal seemed to think you wouldn’t offer the least resistance. But if you are confused, that should make you doubly likely to forget whatever reason you have for being here, and panic at the end.”

She takes a moment to consider the soft, friendly elf in return. The one with the name of a demon in her time. _Like Pride,_ she thinks. But also like Pride, Desire doesn’t seem to carry the same negative connotations that will be so common in the future. In point of fact, all she can see right now is a friendly, waiting face; and at the moment, she could sorely use one.

Her gaze slips down towards the floor.

“Mythal was going to send Pride,” she admits, quietly. “Pride is a really amazing spirit. I don’t know why, but we’re connected, somehow. When I was confused, it was kind to me. It told me it thinks we’re soulmates. I… I love it. So I promised Mythal I would come in its place. So Pride would be safe. That’s why she’s sure; if I don’t die, then Pride will. I won’t let that happen.”

Desire is quiet for a long while.

When she looks up, the guard is staring at the wall behind her; as if lost in thought.

“…I do not think your Pride will fare well when it learns of your fate,” Desire says, quietly.

“Hopefully, it will not learn of it,” she reasons.

“Do you not think it will look for you?” the guard wonders. “As deeply as you love it, do you not think it might love you back? I have known spirits who would scour every corner of all worlds looking for those they care for. When you shatter, it will feel it; it will know you are gone, and it will know it could not protect you. It is Pride. That failure will surely corrupt it into something else.”

“Mythal will not let that happen,” she says. Then she looks away. “Besides. What else could I do? Let Pride be destroyed instead?”

Another moment of silence stretches between them.

At length, Desire sighs.

“No,” the friendly elf agrees. “I am sorry. I wish I could help you, spirit. But this world revels in destroying beautiful things, and tearing lovers apart.”

“I think most worlds seem to,” she replies.

She expects Desire to leave. If not right away, then soon enough. To her surprise, though, the guard lingers. They don’t speak too much more. Still, it’s… easier, with some company around. She asks a few little questions about the room she’s in, and the estate it belongs to, and the guard’s weapon and armour and other meaningless things. Desire answers her questions, gentle and patient, apparently content to just sit or stand around and keep her company.

It’s evening before she’s finally left alone again.

“The ceremony is at dawn,” Desire tells her. “…If I see your Pride, and it has learned of your fate, I will tell it how brave you were. I doubt it will help, but, perhaps it might, for a spirit like that.”

“Thank you,” she says.

Most of the night, she spends lost in thought. She wonders what will happen to her at the end of this. Will she simply cease to be, for once and for all? Will she go wherever everyone else does when they die? Will it be the afterlife of this past that’s waiting for her, or one from her own time? Are they even different? Will she be able to see familiar faces again, or will she be lost, unknown and adrift in a sea of ancient ghosts?

Whatever the answer, she supposes she will find out.

As promised, the guards come back for her at dawn. They let her out of the room. Some of them seem a bit nervous, but when a few moments pass and she doesn’t immediately flee into the Dreaming, they calm down some. She follows them through the passageways of the estate, and despite her efforts to distract herself, finds she can’t spare much attention for the scenery. Eventually she blinks upwards and finds that their procession has come to a stop outside of the estate. A crowd has gathered in a wide open center, just beyond the gates. In front of them is a dais, where a figure who must be Elgar’nan stands; clad in armour that burns like flame, arms outspread as he booms something about renewal and prosperity and strength to the assembled elves.

And sacrifice.

When Elgar’nan gestures towards her, she supposes that’s her cue.

She drifts up towards the altar.

It’s strange, she thinks. She isn’t afraid. She supposes she’s seen too many ancient beings and been in too much peril at this point. Or maybe she just has no fear left to spare for the inevitable. But all she feels is a strange sort of calm, and acceptance, and a sort of vague awareness that this is all very surreal, but no less weighty for it. She is going to be killed. By Elgar’nan.

“You give of yourself to something greater than yourself,” Elgar’nan tells her.

The evanuris raises his hand.

Everything burns.

~

Something is wrong. 

Elgar'nan’s people should have come for Pride by now. There is not much means of keeping time in the little prison in Mythal’s palace, but the ceiling tiles gleam with some ambient light absorbed from above, and Pride marks their shifting from bright daylight, to the softer gleam of evening lights, to the dimness of full night, and then back to daylight again. And it knows that they should be coming, to take away their sacrifice to Arlathan any moment now. 

But they do not. 

The light changes again, and Pride begins to wonder. Has Mythal changed her mind? But if she had, then she would not have kept it imprisoned. Perhaps she is delaying; but to what end? 

Compassion stays with it. The spirit is somber but warm. Quiet in its comfort. Pride expects this, and appreciates it. No others come, and in a way, this is expected and appreciated too; but it finds it wishes someone would bring news of what is going on. Not… not her, of course. She must be getting very far away, to try and keep from feeling it when Pride is shattered. But Curiosity, perhaps. Curiosity would know that if there had been some delay, then Pride would wonder why. 

No one comes, though. 

No one comes until the daylight is back again. Then it is Mythal who comes. Her steps are a steady, familiar rhythm down the hall. Her shadow is a familiar shape. Pride cannot sense her as it normally would, but that is not unexpected, under the circumstances. It is glad to see her. Mythal will bring answers and empathy, as she always had, and perhaps wisdom as well. 

Compassion bows. 

“Oh, no,” the old spirit breathes, with mingled sorrow and resignation. 

It is not, Pride thinks, a good sign. 

“Leave us,” Mythal asks. An unusual request. But Compassion does as bid, after only a moment’s hesitation. The air it had once occupied lingers with the traces of its warmth. Pride regards Mythal reservedly, as she stands outside of its prison, until the last of it all has gone. 

“I am so sorry, my Pride. Your friend has gone and left the protection of the palace,” Mythal says. 

It is not an announcement Pride had been expecting. Gone? Which friend? 

Well. It supposes it knows which; there is only one spirit who is renowned first and foremost for her connection to Pride. 

“She has left to go find some safety, if she can,” he surmises, confused that this should be such a point of interest. 

Mythal shakes her head sadly, though. 

“I received word only recently. When she discovered your fate, she must have been taken by a moment of desperation. She is in Arlathan, Pride. Elgar'nan has taken her, and deemed her a fit subject for sacrifice. He will accept no other, now. She is a more powerful and broken spirit than even you are, and has volunteered herself willingly. I am so sorry." 

Pride stares in disbelief, as it hears these words which make sense, but do not fit. In a flurry, it presses towards the boundaries of its prison. 

"Let me out!” it begs. “I will fly to Arlathan. I will convince Elgar'nan of my danger, and he will see the wisdom of sacrificing me instead!" 

Mythal sighs, and something in Pride twists as it foresees her answer. 

"Elgar'nan does not perceive pride’s folly as he might. You cannot convince him. And the moment she is broken, Pride, there is a chance you will be corrupted. What would happen if you were to lose yourself in Arlathan, before all the elves assembled there?” she wonders. “A powerful spirit seething with malice, unleashed upon whole assemblies of elves? For the safety of the people, I cannot let you go." 

The twisting sensation deepens further, coiling into dread and desperate feeling of helplessness. Pride has been bound and caged, and cannot escape; a prison it entered willingly, and that it now deeply regrets. How much time has passed? In dreams it has seen the echoes of spirits sacrificed before. Shattered and broken to fuel the greatness of the people’s creations - yet that does not make the deaths of those spirits any less horrible an experience. Elgar'nan in particular is notoriously lacking in gentility when it comes to such matters. 

It thinks of her burning and breaking, and the rejection it feels towards the idea is so visceral it is painful. 

Does Mythal not understand? This strange, beautiful, unexpected spirit… Pride is bound to her. When they touched it changed everything. Her voice speaks wisdom, Pride is sure of it; and compassion, too, and love as well. She has brought these things with her. A gift; a precious gift, not just to Pride but to the Dreaming itself, it is firmly convinced. Whatever the mystery of her is, Pride is certain her destruction could only diminish the world. There is no power in her that could possibly be worth more than she is. 

"Let me out!" 

Mythal ducks her head. 

No, no, no. 

Pride presses at the wards. It must get out. It must get through the Dreaming. It must go and find her, and save her, and take her place. The world will not suffer much for having less pride in it, but everything will break if she does. It cannot allow this to happen. As its thoughts become more and more urgent, more panicked, it smashes against the walls of its prison. It grows in size. A towering emerald figure, with magic so potent it cracks through the air like the echoes of lightning; six eyes gleaming and burning like lit flames. 

"Let me out!” Pride demands. 

“I am so very sorry. I truly am. I would not have had it this way,” Mythal says. 

And then the world breaks. 

It is pain as Pride has never felt it before. In an instant of perfect, vital clarity, the spirit sees fire. It feels the burn of it as if that fire is being used against its own being, and agony of being lit up and torn apart all at once. For one instant Pride thinks that whatever is happening, it is being destroyed, too; it wonders if some rare wish has been granted, and it will take the place of its soulmate, and hopes this is true. 

But then there is only a great, awful sense of breaking and loss. Blackness replaces the flame. An awful coldness swallows the world, it seems, and Pride roars in its pain and futility. No. It twists, further and further, lost to a spiral of misery. No. It cannot be done, but it is. It cannot have failed, but it has. It is still in its prison - its tiny, useless little prison - and it has been done. In one move that fool Elgar'nan has taken… has destroyed… 

“NO!" 

Pride’s voice resounds with a thousand echoes. It shakes, deep and wretched, and at last the air cracks. 

"Pride!” Mythal calls. Her voice sounds as if it is reaching over a hurricane. “Pride, you must calm yourself! You are allowing yourself to be corrupted!" 

Allowing? 

 _Allowing?_  

Pride has made allowances for its entire existence. Allowances for its folly, and weakness, and failings, and above all, its danger. It is in this prison because it let itself be put here; and what prize has such weakness borne? It is hemorrhaging itself into a void where a connection used to be, now. Where one who whispered of its beauty and worth has been torn away. Ripped apart. 

If Pride has ever been a dangerous thing, then it has been a powerful one, too. Yet it rejected the danger of its nature; and thereby rejected the power that might have prevented this. It was weak. 

It hurts because it was weak. 

The air goes shrill. Light burns. The room is on the verge of bursting, and Pride knows it will break free; and then it will be what it was always doomed to be. A bane. A scourge. It will lay this world to waste at its feet - beginning with Elgar'nan, and ending with every stone of Arlathan broken at its feet. People will fear it, and spirits will flock to it, and both worlds grow dark. The Dreaming is close. It will flood through it, and when it does, become unstoppable. 

Mythal’s magic surges. 

The wards renew their fortifications, and Pride is buckled beneath them. It roars and thrashes, burning and twisting, but it cannot win. With a force of effort that sends her to one knee, Mythal cages it again. It feels as though a thousand burning brands are being pressed to it. 

"Pride! You must come to your senses!” Mythal calls. 

“My senses?” Pride parrots. Its voice is so strange, now. It resounds like drumbeats. It shakes through the walls, and into the ground, and trembles. “Ahhh, yes. Those senses that tied me here. Those senses that bid me acquiesce to your demands." 

The wards have changed enough that it can feel her, now. It can sense the edges of her; the plans upon plans, the dreams upon dreams. The self-assuredness, that had once seemed to Pride to be the wisdom of self-awareness, and now seems to it to be purest conceit. 

"For the first time, oh Great Lady Mythal, I think I have found my senses,” Pride says. 

“She did this for you!” Mythal snaps. 

The tone of her voice breaks through the storm building up in the tiny cell again. 

Pride wavers. 

“She died to save you! What good is that, I wonder, if you let what she loved be destroyed? Do you imagine she would want this for you? To see you become a monster? You have broken, Pride, but it is not too late! It is not too late to stop yourself from becoming a creature unworthy of her sacrifice!" 

Unworthy? 

When was it ever worthy of her? 

It looks down at its hands. Claws, fierce and ragged, greet its gaze. They would be no good for holding the smaller, rounder hands of that spirit. What would come from that connection, that flash of heightened sense and dreams, if she were to appear now and reach for Pride? Only pain, it thinks. 

Yet it would take that pain, a thousand times over, if it might. After a few moments, its thoughts become confused. It does not know what to make of them. The Dreaming is still so far, and it knows… what does it know? It looks up to see Mythal whispering. What for? What is going on? 

Hands… 

There, yes. It must reach for someone. 

"Where is she?” Pride asks. 

“Hush,” Mythal says. 

The world wavers, and goes indistinct. Pride falls into a quiet state, and drifts without thought or movement, still trapped within its cell. Time passes. Things shift. Mythal leaves, and comes back, and leaves again. So does Compassion. So do other spirits; none particularly familiar to Pride from the palace. Wisdom drifts close, but offers only a single utterance that survives the strange, non-dreaming state of affairs. 

“Patience,” it says. 

Patience for what, though? Pride feels only as if it is waiting for an end. It is broken. How did it break? How… oh, yes. It was supposed to break. To protect her. Is that what happened? Is that why it hurts? 

…No. 

No, something went wrong. Something else broke, and Pride… Pride has become the dangerous thing. It has at last drifted too far from wisdom, and found the path of corruption. It is lost, but it is not gone. Not yet. 

So what awaits, then? Is this merely an interlude before it is broken in earnest? Will it be given to June, or Sylaise, or some other ranking figure to be made use of? Perhaps it will be taken to Arlathan. Perhaps the pieces of it will be placed with the pieces of her. A small mercy. 

“No, my Pride,” Mythal says, gently. 

It looks up, and realizes that she has come back. The first face Pride saw in the world. It looks upon him with sorrow, and compassion, though the spirits themselves have been kept back. 

“What will you do with me, then?” Pride wonders. It can feel it, still. The jaggedness is being kept back, but that cannot last forever. It is getting stronger, despite all efforts to keep it caged. 

“This is my fault,” Mythal says. “I should have foreseen that your… that she would act this way. I underestimated her love for you. It is so rare to find any spirit so driven to love, even when the target of their affections is the best of our kind. But I understand, I think. This was always inevitable, Pride. It is written in your nature. But your nature can still change. Perhaps not as you would prefer; but enough to prevent catastrophe. Enough to ensure that the legacy of her death is not the utter ruination of us all." 

Ah. 

This again, then, Pride thinks. 

"You wish me to take a body,” it notes. 

“I thought it prudent before. It has become a necessity, now,” Mythal agrees. 

Funny how that goes, Pride thinks, dark and sharp - and getting sharper by the minute. Bit by bit, its thoughts begin to clear. Mythal will never let it go loose. She will indeed finish this breaking before she does. Agreeing to her terms will be the only way out of this. 

As it seems it always must be, in the end. 

“A legacy,” Pride says, slowly. “What do you imagine her legacy should be?" 

Mythal regards it carefully. 

"She died for you, and for Arlathan. I would say that my thoughts on the matter are worth less than the truth of it. For good or ill, those things are her legacy, now." 

"As we are yours,” Pride notes. 

Six red eyes lock gazes with Mythal’s golden stare. 

“I will take a body, then,” it concedes. 

“It will change you,” Mythal warns. 

In the confines of its cell, Pride rises to its full height, for the first time since it has been subdued. It fills the space around it, and stares downwards; massive and twisted, a beast of horns and spikes and claws, and needle-sharp teeth. Its eyes glitter from the depths of their sockets. Its shadow sinks past the walls of its prison, and pools at Mythal’s feet. 

“I believe that is the entire point. Is it not?” Pride asks.

There is the faintest tremour of doubt on the evanuris’ face, before she nods.


	4. Adjustments

Mythal is correct - things are different after Pride takes on a body.

There are many changes to adjust to. Pain sits differently upon him. He does not twist or warp or break apart, though, no matter how much it feels that way at times. His magic grows in fits and starts. It lashes out, brutally; it curls in on itself, cold and deep and daunting. His emotions are much the same. A turmoil that makes him unpleasant to be around.

He is a dour face in Mythal’s halls, solemn and often foreboding. It does not surprise him that he is avoided. Mythal grants him a considerable rank, and quite a few freedoms. She encourages him to discover his ‘potential’; to learn new things and grow into his new shape. Pride finds himself with little inclination towards this, at first. There is too much which has been lost. He will never become Wisdom. He will never regain his love. This new chapter of his life is a prison sentence. It is a period of grave mourning.

He is not surprised that a great deal of time passes without him seeing Curiosity. Compassion is a frequent companion of his now; as are Rage and Sorrow. But as he no longer welcomes new discoveries to himself, it is perhaps to be expected that a spirit like Curiosity would avoid him entirely, regardless of past acquaintanceship.

Mythal does not give him leave to go to Arlathan.

“You are new to this life. You must stay here, and adjust to it; and avoid this self-flagellation, before it consumes you entirely,” she tells him, with worry in her gaze.

“I want to see where she was broken,” he insists. “There may be something left. Some echo, or…”

“There is nothing. She is in the firmament of the city now; raw energy, upholding its foundations,” Mythal refutes. Gently.

“I want to see,” he insists.

“For your own sake, not yet.”

The refusal is firm, and will not budge. So Pride turns to the spirits. Curiosity often flits towards the city through the Dreaming, and knew… knew _her_  well enough. Got along with her, anyway. Pride searches the libraries and the halls, and when he comes up empty-handed, he begins asking around. As he makes his inquiries, however, new concern grows in him. Curiosity has not been seen. Not just by him, but by anyone; not for months. He goes to Compassion, and the spirit admits that it has not seen its fellow since before he took on a body. He goes to Sorrow; but it only shakes its head, and vanishes again. He goes to Rage, but Rage does not pay Curiosity much mind, and does not know of what might have affected it.

At last, he goes back to Mythal.

“Where is Curiosity?” he asks.

“It left,” she tells him. “I suspect part of the reason why it even stayed here to begin with was its fondness for you. But I fear that fondness died when you took on a body. Or at least, it wilted enough that Curiosity no longer felt beholden here.”

The answer rests uneasily with Pride. It is true enough, he supposes, that spirits of Curiosity tend to wander and roam as they please. But he cannot help but recall the sight of two spirits flying away from his cell, on that fateful day when everything began to fall apart. His memories of his time as a spirit are not always altogether clear. But neither are they anywhere near to being gone completely.

He goes to Compassion again.

“Is Mythal lying?” he asks.

The spirit wilts, noticeably. It has been having difficulties of late, he has noticed. He had thought it might have become afraid of him, after everything that has happened. But it does not shy away from him. He begins to find himself wondering if it isn’t something else, then.

“There is no answer I could give that would help you,” Compassion says.

“Then just give me the truth,” he asks.

The spirit shakes its head.

“I cannot,” it admits.

That is as close to confirmation as he will get, he supposes. If Compassion cannot speak, it is because Mythal has compelled it not to. And there would be no clear reason for her to compel it not to speak of reassuring things.

Pride goes to Arlathan.

It takes him another week still to memorize the patterns of the eluvian’s scheduled openings to deliver supplies to the palace, and then sneak away unnoticed during the early hours of the morning. He means to go quickly, but he has never been in the crossroads in this form before. He loses his way along the paths, and has to ask for directions, and knows he makes himself too conspicuous and takes too long by the time he finally reaches the city. It is nearly noon, then. The gleaming spires look - as everything does - different in this light. Unfamiliar spirits drift up in his wake as he makes his way down the street.

A few elves turn to look at him as well. He walks with purpose, head high, navigating the roads and asking the more helpful spirits for yet further directions. It is such slow going with a body. He cannot drift as he would like; can barely float, and even then, not in any truly useful fashion. His stomach growls and he feels a rush of irritation. Food. It is always demanding food, despite his having eaten just yesterday.

But as unpleasant sensations go, there are more difficult ones to endure. He ignores the emptiness of his gut as he at last comes to the gates of Elgar’nan’s holdings. Massive walls etched with flames that move and glow, and reach up towards gleaming rubies set into the eyes of dancing spirits. He pauses, here, and now he truly feels a pang of regret for this form; because it is so much harder to breathe in the traces of dreams and memories like this. Oh, he can still manage it, of course. He can feel the ignoble hubris of the place, especially. But it has been months since the sacrifice which must have happened near to Elgar’nan’s gates, and if there is any faint remnant of _her…_

He cannot find it.

A fresh wash of pain falls over him. Mythal’s assurance that there was nothing left weigh heavily on his fears. He struggles with the depth and complexity of feeling, burning tightly in his breast, and spilling into the air around him. There is not enough to even say farewell to.

His throat hurts.

His eyes burn.

He turns to go, and nearly walks straight into an elf who has moved up behind him. It is a testament to his turmoil, perhaps, that he did not notice the encroaching presence sooner. The figure is small and round, soft-featured but clad in a peacekeeper’s gear, with Elgar’nan’s vallaslin on her face.

Pride feels a rush of apprehension join in the unpleasant cocktail of his emotions. He halts his forward momentum, clumsily, and then takes an awkward step back.

The peacekeeper looks him up and down, carefully. There is a spark of suspicion in her gaze.

“Hello, young dreamer,” she says. “What brings you to our holdings?”

The pleasant inquiry, Pride supposes, is at least better than an accusation, or a firm hand closing around his arm to drag him back to Mythal’s palace. But he does not let down his guard. He is not, after all, supposed to be here.

“Nothing,” he says.

It is only once the reflexive answer escapes him that he realizes how true it is. There is nothing left for him to find, or to have. _She is raw energy._  He swallows, and feels such a profound rush of misery and loss that he cannot help the choked sound which escapes him. Nor the burst of grief that pours out of him. His face burns, and the frustration of the unpleasant sensation only makes it all worse as his eyes leak and his lungs refuse to behave themselves.

The peacekeeper tilts her head, and her expression softens some as he promptly loses control of himself. She makes a soft noise, and reaches over, patting carefully at his arm.

“Oh, you _are_ brand new,” she says, as much to herself as to him, it seems. Her gaze darts towards the gates, and then she meets his own, carefully. “Pride?” she asks.

He pauses, swallowing thickly. He does not think they have met before. But perhaps it is something he has forgotten, in his transition from one form to the next.

Or perhaps Mythal has put out word that he has run off, and must be retrieved.

There is not much use in denying it either way, he supposes.

“Yes,” he admits.

The peacekeeper closes her eyes, and lets out a heavy breath. She reaches out again, and offers his arm another gentle pat.

“Come with me,” she asks.

Pride considers defying that request. Peacekeepers are to be obeyed, of course, especially in Arlathan; but he has rank. The consequences might not be too dire if he fled. 

To what end, though? He does not know these streets. He cannot run from existence, and if there is nothing left here for him to find, then he may as well face the consequences of his defiance sooner rather than later. He tilts his head in acquiescence, but keeps his back straight and his shoulders firm, even as the tears make tracks down his face.

The peacekeeper does not lead him through the broad gates to Elgar’nan’s holdings, however. She beckons him down a side street, instead, and down towards a smaller building. His eyes blur, and make the details difficult to catch. Most of it looks like a wash of fiery colours and clean lines. But he gathers it is some sort of barracks as he is lead to a small room, with a neatly kept bed and set of cabinets in it, and a warm wash basin off to one side. The peacekeeper directs him to it, and gently instructs him to wipe off his face, before moving over to the cabinets.

“There was a spirit who was sacrificed on Elgar’nan’s altar not long ago,” she says.

Pride stills.

He blinks, and wonders if he will not have to wash his face again straight away.

The peacekeeper looks at him, and nods.

“Brave thing. She loved a Spirit of Pride, she told me. She had made a deal with Mythal to protect it.”

He stills.

It is strange, the sinking feeling that comes over him. The cold that prickles through him. It starts at the pain burning in his heart, and spreads out from there. It is almost calming; and yet he is sure this sensation is not truly a peaceful one at all.

“A deal?” he asks, carefully. Through his fading hold on the Dreaming, he feels his voice echo and reverberate; a deep and dark ripple.

“Mmhmm. Her life for Pride’s,” the peacekeeper says, pulling open a drawer. “And here you are. In a lovely new body; not dead, but changed enough that the protection of her bargain has been rendered null, now. Funny how that works with our revered leaders. They covet such glorious spirits, and in their infinite wisdom, trap them in all sorts of pretty little cages. Twisted little bargains.”

There is a sharpness to her voice, now. An edge that feels kindred to the one honing itself within Pride. She pulls something from the drawer, and shuts it with a sharp motion that makes the cabinets sway.

Then she closes her eyes, and takes a breath.

He feels it before he sees it. What she has. It makes him go still; it makes the world waver and sway, as his heartbeat stutters, and he forgets that he is supposed to breathe.

“This was all I could save,” she tells him, as she hands him a bundle roughly the size of his palm.

It is soft cloth, wrapped around a warm object. He takes it as gently as he can. His fingers tingle as he brushes the cream-coloured fabric aside. A soft emerald glow spreads across his hands. The shard he uncovers looks like a tiny green star. His chest burns, and his eyes blur as he presses careful fingertips to it.

He does not know what he had been expecting. That same rush of contact, perhaps. Or maybe a whisper. A hint of her voice; an echo of her presence. But all he gets is warmth, and the remnant of pain, and the faintest tremor of recognition. Like an exhausted and trembling limb, reaching across a vast distance and fading in the barest instant before he can grasp it back.

His hands shake. He presses the shard to his chest, and squeezes his eyes shut; trying to focus on the sensations, and not the insistent demands of his new form. Still, it will have its way, it seems, as a sob escapes him, and his knees give way. He drops to the floor; clutching the shard as fat, heavy tears drop onto it.

Almost frantically, then, he wipes them away with the cloth.

“They will not hurt it,” the peacekeeper tells him, gently. Her own eyes are red. But the set of her mouth looks almost angry.

Pride still brushes the shard dry, and keeps any more of his weeping from touching it. He pulls it close to his chest. There is a vibration to it, he finds. When he holds it especially close, it seems to match the thumping of his heart.

He sits a long while on the floor of the small room, and does not know what to do except stay there, and perhaps never move again.

But that is not an option. Not really.

The peacekeeper does not hurry him along. At length, he lets out a heavy breath, and swallows.

“Thank you,” he says.

She shakes her head.

“I would take your thanks if I had saved her. As it stands, this was the least any decent soul could do,” she tells him. Then she moves a bit closer, and drops a hand onto his shoulder. “She looked straight on at Elgar’nan the whole time, you know. It went quicker than most.”

Pride curls a hand protectively over the top of the shard, and folds the cloth back over it.

Someday, he thinks, he is going to kill Elgar’nan. The man should understand it. It would be a matter of vengeance, after all. But first, he must become stronger. He must become better at this matter of bodies. He must grow great and terrible - enough to protect what is left. 

“I should get back,” he says, quietly.

The peacekeeper retracts her touch.

“Good luck. I hope you find a safe place for it,” she says, nodding to the shard.

“I am not certain there are any safe places,” Pride admits. His voice sounds strange again. He gets to his feet, and carefully tucks the emerald star into one of the inner pockets of his clothes; under several layers of fabric, nestled against his ribs. “But I will make certain it is safe. This time.”

With a nod, and another word of thanks, he leaves the peacekeeper’s company.

He is scarcely back onto the city’s streets before several of Mythal’s come upon him, though. They tsk at him and tut at him, but he is dry-eyed and unapologetic by then, as they lead him back through the crossroads and to the palace once more. Mythal greets him with a look of saddened disappointment.

“I know you are grieving. But this cannot work if I do not trust you; and I cannot trust you if you will not trust me,” she tells him, with a gentle touch to his cheek.

He meets her gaze.

“Of course,” he agrees. “Forgive me. I should have realized you only wished to protect me from the disappointment of going and finding nothing. It was a terrible feeling.”

“The only cure for grief is time,” Mythal explains.

“Then I will take my time,” he promises.

He will need it, he thinks, for a great many things.


	5. Curiosity

Pride is still too dangerous to approach.

That is what Mythal says. Curiosity flits about the palace. Part of it wants very much to _see_  what is happening to Pride. It has never watched a spirit be corrupted before.

But even though it is Curiosity, most of it does not want to see this at all. Because it is Pride. Pride is Curiosity’s friend. Pride asks good questions. Pride was once a little ball of shining light in Curiosity’s hands, and Curiosity remembers seeing it twist _wrongly_ , just a bit, as Mythal watched; and it remembers wondering what would happen, and for one of the first and only times, not wanting to see the answer right then.

It is late in the evening when Mythal calls the spirit to herself.

The beautiful evanuris looks at Curiosity with sad eyes. There is a question in her. It takes a moment for it to become clear, though; it is held back, behind other layers of more pressing things. Curiosity drifts closer, wondering what it might be.

The trap that springs up is utterly unexpected.

The air closes around it. Curiosity twists in alarm, as it is abruptly severed from the Dreaming, and locked in a circle of light at Mythal’s feet.

The question becomes clear.

Mythal wonders what Curiosity could have become, if not for all of this. If not for its innate inability to keep secrets. If not for its attachment to Pride. If not for its very own nature, which has finally drawn it into knowing things it cannot be allowed to know, if all is to go according to plan.

A slender hand presses to the outline of Curiosity’s new cage.

The spirit shakes, and wonders, too.

“What are you going to do with me?” it asks.

Mythal sighs.

“I am going to send you very, very far away.”


	6. Patience

He tries to find a place for the shard in the Dreaming.

It is not safe in the palace, on his person. A thousand incidents could lead to its discovery, and questions about it, and how he acquired it.

But the Dreaming is no perfect sanctuary, either, and the matter is… odd. As everything to do with… with her had seemed to carry a note of oddity about it. There are places, of course. Fertile dreams and wellsprings, and secure, hidden locales in the furthest reaches of the Dreaming; though many of those are beyond his reach, now. But some are not. He takes the shard to them. There is still life pulsing within it. He can feel its vibrancy. It has not dulled beyond recovery, or renewal. But though there are places within the Dreaming that seem to help it gleam more brightly, and resonate more strongly; but it does not take root in them. It will not nestle into any dream bower, or rest easily in magic-rich waters.

Pride worries.

It is not dead, but it will not be reborn. Perhaps too much of it was destroyed in Elgar’nan’s ritual? The thought makes him burn with anger of his own. He seeks out places for it, but invariably, when the dream ends, he carries it back to the waking world with himself. The waking world and its dangers, and intrigues, and cold, hard borders.

It rests warm against his heart. A secret. If Mythal suspects, she gives no indication of it. Not even Compassion is permitted close enough to detect the anomaly. Pride is grateful that the magic of his hidden star is like enough to his own that any hint of its presence could be ascribed to his own resettling magic.

Time passes, as it is wont to. Pride serves Mythal impeccably. He commits to his studies; studies of warfare and battlefields, tactics, combat and magic. There is a war on, after all. His youth is an impediment, but one that is forgotten over time, as he matures into a sharp and commanding presence at his lady’s side. There is no mistaking his purpose, or presuming him to be an indulgence. His tone is sharp; often clipped, but generally courteous. He reigns in his emotions, and learns to school his body’s expressiveness in short order, to hide his bitterness or anger or disdain. He is not after making enemies. Not yet, at least. He withholds many of his ideas that might make the fighting go more smoothly, but volunteers any that could spare the need for sacrifices; particularly the sacrifices of spirits. And he is careful, whenever a vital idea presents itself, to always save it for the times when desperation has begun to tinge the air.

He wears an elf’s shape as often as not. It is too difficult to hide his star about the form of a beast. But on his first battlefield, as the fear and blood and sweat overcome him, his magic bursts forth in a flurry of emerald light. The star at his heart burns, and the light takes on the shape of a fierce wolf, that tears through the enemy ranks.

Mythal’s wolf, they call him, after that.

That night he dreams of a great wolf cracking the world between its jaws; he dreams of gentle hands, pulling him away from the nightmare, and holding him close.

“Solas,” her voice whispers.

He wakes to find that the ground is trembling.

The earthquake is unexpected, particularly for the region that they are in. It lasts for several minutes. Shaking through the camp, and alarming the soldiers. After it passes, word comes in that the entire region had been affected. 

When another quake strikes not two days later, and emergency council is called to discuss the likelihood that this is some battle tactic of the enemy’s. Have they gained ground with the Children of Stone? Is this some prelude to a new phase of the war? A distraction? A warning of assaults yet to come from below?

Pride watches the council deteriorate, before he ventures in opinion; a quiet, steady voice that cuts through the frantic rain of disagreements.

“The southern front is quiet at the moment. Elgar’nan’s people could hold that line, if some of ours withdrew to investigate the nearest pathways underground,” he asserts.

“That could be precisely what they want us to do,” one of Sylaise’s generals asserts. “Weaken the lines and then launch a surprise assault.”

“I agree,” Mythal declares, nodding to the general. “Withdrawing any significant force would be a poor choice at the moment. The quakes are more nuisance than anything at the moment. But they still bear investigation. A small scouting party might accomplish more than a battalion in this instance.”

“My hunters are suited for just such situations,” Andruil volunteers. 

“Your forces are arrayed across vital lines to the north, and are needed there,” Mythal counters.

“This is pointless. I say we burn the tunnels, kill the Dirt Walkers, and have done with it,” Elgar’nan declares.

Pride glances sidelong at him.

“Sensible. The Children of Stone can cause us no further trouble if they are all dead; though I do hear that they are quite numerous, and their tunnels extensive. I imagine a campaign to eradicate them would be very time-consuming for your people, my lord, despite their exceptional skill at wanton pillaging and slaughter.”

Elgar’nan looks, for a moment, as if he is uncertain as to whether he has just been complimented or insulted.

“Indeed, if we were to rob the southern lines of your best fire masters, my love, it would become far too easily contested,” Mythal smoothly interjects, with only a mildly reproachful look in his direction. He is expected to be somewhat resentful of Elgar’nan. 

“Given the potentially delicate nature of this matter, I believe investigation is called for. Permit me to send a scouting party. I can spare them, and my forces are close to the what seems to be the source of these earthquakes. If they fail, we can go from there,” she carries on.

With little more in the way of disagreement, her proposal is accepted.

When the council breaks, Pride finds himself dwelling on the matter of his dream. _She_  had asked about the Children of Stone, a time or two. She had accepted his lack of knowledge on them readily, but spoken of them with interest; and without condescension, or any indication that they were pitiable creatures.

He wonders. There could be an opportunity here. His hand drifts up towards his chest, pressing gently over his heart. An opportunity for what, he is not certain; but perhaps it is a warning.

Or a plea.

Seeking out Mythal, he begs leave to join the scouting party.

“No,” she refuses, immediately. “This mission has too great a potential for danger, and you are still too young.”

He raises a brow at her.

“I have been on battlefields; there are few more dangerous places than that,” he asserts.

The comment earns him a sigh.

“You have been on battlefields by my side; and there are _many_  more dangerous places than that, I assure you,” Mythal counters. “No. You will stay here, where you are needed, and where you can continue to learn and grow. I almost lost you once, dear one. I do not feel apt to chance you again so soon.”

Her voice is soft; fond, if not at all apologetic, but firm enough to put an end to the matter. 

Pride offers apologies and contrition for the presumption of asking. These are waved off. He takes his leave, then, ostensibly to review the latest field reports and help determine which scouts might be spared. He wonders how it would go for him to simply leave. On his own. Or to defect, even; but the Nameless are fighting a losing battle, and his well-situated and closer to vengeance here, he thinks, than he would be elsewhere.

 _Patience,_  Wisdom had once advised.

Time.

The star at his heart pulses.

He must, it seems, to continue to bide his.


	7. Thenvunin

Pride is terrifying.

Thenvunin can admit that. He heard the stories, of course. He knew the spirit, back before everything went… wrong with it. Only vaguely, though. It was not too much surprise that Mythal’s palace had finally attracted one of its sort. There was much that had been accomplished there, and much to be admired, and find satisfaction in. It was a beautiful place, full of magnificent works of skill and craftsmanship.

Pride had seemed fitting.

And then Pride had twisted.

Thenvunin does not presume to understand his lady’s mind, or her mercy, in giving him a form. But neither does he feel inclined to pretend that some trace of that… disquieting nature has lingered. They all see it, really.

Pride is very polite, and courteous, and sometimes stares right through them all; looking to some far-distant point that none of them can rightly perceive.

So, when he at last falters on a battlefield, Thenvunin’s primary thought in delivering his messages to him at the healer’s tent is to do so as swiftly as possible. Why their lady thought Pride of sufficient stability to hold such a lofty rank is beyond him; though the man at least acquits himself well on most battlefields.

Pride is unconscious when Thenvunin arrives.

“Put the messages with his things; I will give them to him when he wakes, if there is nothing urgent,” the healer instructs.

Thenvunin locates a pile of gear in the far corner of the room, and does as he has been told. Nothing _is_  too pressing, after all. He turns, and is about to leave when he accidentally knocks a piece of clothing off of the table. Pausing, he retrieves it. The article is cut and bloodied, likely beyond repair; Thenvunin has no idea why the healers even bothered to keep it. It is strangely heavy, though. Turning it in his hand, he realizes it is an undershirt with a pocket sewn carefully into the breast.

Curious, he reaches in to retrieve the contents. In all honesty, he is mostly thinking of making certain that some stray missive or badge of honours is not discarded with the ruined clothing by mistake; but no sooner has his hand closed around the object in question, than is the tent suddenly overrun. Three new patients are hurriedly brought in, and a messenger joins them.

“Commander!” she calls. “It was an ambush, up by the pass! They’re trying to cut us off!”

Letting out a curse, Thenvunin follows her swiftly from the tent, his mind whirling with the implications of a surprise attack. It is only when he is halfway across the camp that he realizes he is still carrying the contents of Pride’s pockets. And that they are warm, and bright with energy.

A glance down reveals that his hand is curled around green spirit shard. He nearly drops it in shock. One of the most valuable commodities in Elvhenan, and it had been in Pride’s _undershirt?_

He stares a moment. The messenger calls for him impatiently, though, and there are matters to attend to. With a flare of nerves, he shoves the object into his own inner pocket, and carries on. But his thoughts are distracted, now. What is Pride doing with such a thing? Better yet, why would he be keeping it on his person? Surely such a treasure would either be used or returned to the Dreaming to renew itself by now. Unless it is some sort of macabre trophy.

It is still warm.

Thenvunin shudders a bit, and is suddenly even more alarmed by Pride than he had been before.

 

~

 

When Pride’s consciousness returns, the first thing he is aware of is absence.

He has barely blinked his eyes open before he is sitting up. One of his hands presses to his chest, and is met with bare skin. His gear; gone. Why? He turns, looking swiftly around the room. A healing tent. He had been injured, then, and stripped. Someone snaps something at him as he gets onto his feet.

He ignores them. The healers fret, but he can tell the difference between a mortal injury and the simple annoyance of pain. His freshly-healed wounds pull a little oddly in places, but they are fine. They are not the pressing need. He moves until he spots a familiar pile of clothing.

One thing he has made amply certain of is that the healers know to throw nothing of his away, and to touch none of his belongings. He has done some harsh things to emphasize how poorly he takes such behaviour, but the point has long been made. So it is he finds his gear bloodied, sullied, broken, but each piece is there. He rifles through until he finds the article he is looking for.

He knows at once, when he lifts it up, that something is _wrong._

It is too light.

With growing distress, he rifles through the rest of the pile. Perhaps it fell out.

Nothing.

His heart sinks. Ice swallows him, and steals over him. No. No, no, no. He cannot lose her _again._  He cannot have been so careless. So foolish. Such a valuable thing, and he thought scaring a few healers would safeguard it? Anyone could have come into this tent. Or it could have fallen out on the battlefield; or dropped to the floor in the chaos of disrobing him. It could have been kicked out of the tent, or picked up by scavengers on the battlefield, and what would they do with it? Use it up, surely. Break the last piece of her, until there is nothing left…

His fingers brush over parchment.

He pauses, and stares at the packet that had been deposited onto his pile of clothing. Updates and information on the camp for him to review. Someone had left them with his things; someone who had reason to be close _to_  his things. Who might have seen something rare and valuable and tempting.

Some thief.

“Who brought these?” he demands of the nearest healer.

The man balks at his tone; just a bit.

“Commander Thenvunin,” he admits, though. “He came while you were resting. He was only here a moment.”

“And do you make a practice of letting any interested elf paw through your patient’s belongings, or only those who hold auspicious enough rank?” Pride snaps. The healer flinches; and he regrets his temper, somewhat. But his nerves are beyond frayed, and will not be settled lightly.

“Never mind,” he says, when the man attempts to reply. “Where is Thenvunin now?”

“I do not know, my lord. There was an attack at the pass, but we have been busy with the wounded,” the healer admits.

The pass?

An ambush on the supply lines, most likely. Pride sets out into the camp, and verifies that Thenvunin had set out to meet the enemy with his forces. He is on the verge of going after them when the sounds of a commotion at the western side of the camp draw his attention, and he finds the party in question is returning; wearied, but victorious, it seems. Its commander is weary with magical exhaustion.

Good.

It had best be only himself that he has exhausted.

Pride watches him with narrowed eyes, until he is further away from his men.

“Thenvunin,” he calls, then, stalking towards the war tent. “A word.”

The commander has barely followed him past the decorated flap before Pride turns, sharply, grasping his arm and forcing him face-first to the ground. A quick spell and Thenvunin’s cry of outrage is silenced. Pride plants a knee firmly in his back, pinning him as a dangerous, dark viciousness rises up in his chest.

“Where is it?” he asks, sharply.

Thenvunin fumbles at his side for a moment. A quick check of his belt reveals several pouches. Pride keeps him down as he opens them, until he finds what he is looking for.

The rush of relief in him is almost overwhelming. It is enough that his grip slackens, and Thenvunin throws him off, cursing and spitting and a little wild around the eyes. Pride stumbles backwards, and stares at his star. Unhurt. The same size it had been before, with the same energy running through it. He presses it between his palms, and then to his chest, and lets out a long breath that is perilously close to a sob of relief.

Thenvunin quiets.

Pride tucks his star safely away again.

Then he levels the commander with a sharp look.

“You will tell no one about this,” he says.

“No?” Thenvunin wonders, straightening his rumpled clothing, and raising an eyebrow. “You are keeping a _spirit shard_  like a - like… I am not certain I even wish to know what you are keeping it like. That is worrying behaviour, you know. As is accosting one of your peers.”

“There are other aspects of my behaviour that can be far more worrying to you in particular, Thenvunin,” Pride warns. He straightens, and stares at the other elf in the dim light of the tent. “And I can be much more violent than that, if the cause is sufficient.”

“Are you threatening me?” Thenvunin wonders.

“Yes,” Pride confirms.

The commander narrows his eyes.

Of course, he will be difficult. Of all the people to have made this discovery, it would have to be _him._  Pride does some mental calculations. But no, it is still too soon for him to make any overt moves.

“You do not frighten me,” Thenvunin tells him; it rings a little false. “We are of equal rank, and I am your senior. One word of this to Mythal, and she will no doubt be concerned enough to remove you from your post, and re-evaluate your duties.”

Pride considers.

“You keep birds, do you not?”

The change in the atmosphere of the tent is immediate. Thenvunin goes still.

“…As a hobby,” he allows.

“Of course. There are three new nests in the garden bowers at the forest palace, are there not?” Pride muses, lightly. “And one of them belongs to one of your most beautiful songbirds. The lovely jade and crimson one, who prefers to sing in the evenings. You have been thinking of asking Mythal for leave to have your own garden, so you can tend to them better. It would be such a shame for that entire family line to meet with tragedy. They have been bred down from a bird you raised as a child, I believe?”

Thenvunin is quite pale, now.

“How do you know that?” he asks. “You were not even…”

“No. I was not. But one does meet spirits, here and there. I suppose if Mythal does remove me from my post, I shall go back to the palace. Where I will have ample opportunity to cross paths with your pets,” Pride replies, as calm returns to him somewhat. His heart always feels steadier, somehow, when it is not beating alone.

“Stay away from my birds,” Thenvunin tells him, and for a moment, he actually looks quite fierce.

“I will,” Pride agrees. “So long as you do not mention my own… matter of interest. And I would prefer it that way, for both our sakes. I will even put in a good word for you, when you finally do request that garden.”

For a long moment, they stare one another down.

At last, Thenvunin turns, and heads towards the tent flap. The man pauses again, partway through.

“What even is it? Or _was_  it?” he asks.

“None of your concern,” Pride replies.

When at last he is alone, he drops his face into his hands; he takes in one breath, and then the other. The star at his heart warms, as if in comforting reassurance. His eyes remain shut tight as he presses a palm over it again, and tries not to drown in the dizzying sensation of his own relief, and lingering fears. If Thenvunin tells Mythal… he will have to adjust course. All his plans will be upended. He will not suffer even the slimmest chance of losing what is left of her. 

He must find a way to secure it. If nothing else, this cannot happen again.


	8. Flash Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, since most of my AU's upon AU's are prompt-based, here we flash forward to the Inquisition timeline.

This is… upsetting, he decides.

There are many obvious reasons for these circumstances to be so. But there are too many eerie, incidental ones as well. The placement of the mark on her hand. Emerald light burning so brightly there. The sound of her voice, that _echoes_  another; one that he has carried through memories for all the long years of his life. The way she smiles. The way she _moves._  It dredges up things long lost.

When she touches him - a hand reaching out to help him stand - he cannot help but jump, a little. As if anticipating that the feel of her skin against his own will somehow change the very air around them.

She is not…

No. Of course she is not. It is the mark affecting her, he decides. 

That must be it.

After a time, he almost manages to convince himself. It is the mark. Just the mark. The similarities will end once he regains the orb and fixes this mess.

And then Redcliffe happens. Time magic happens. She vanishes in a cloud of darkness, only to reappear again just as his horror is settling in. But while her return changes the course of his distress, it cannot ease it. Because with it comes a revelation that he cannot ignore, or wilfully dismiss. A notion that should be an impossibility; even by his standards.

And yet.

And yet…

“You were there, in the future,” she tells him, later, when all is said and done.

They are in Haven. The mountain air is cold and brittle. He lets it touch him; lets it sink into his bones, so that he can pretend, even just slightly, that it is the source of the icy feeling in his chest.

“Oh?” he asks. As if only passingly curious.

She nods, thoughtful; her brows furrowed in some obvious concern.

“You’d suffered through a lot. You fought fiercely to send me back.” She shifts from one foot to another, and her cheeks darken, just a bit. “I think you were a bit delirious. Towards the end you weren’t making much sense. But, you asked me to tell your past self something. Considering everything that happened, I feel like I should keep that promise.”

He nods, once, and spares a rare moment to be glad that his emotions are caged fully within them; he does not know that he could entirely disguise what he is feeling now. The heady cocktail of hope and dread, suspicion and longing, and guilt. If this is what he thinks it is, then… then there is so much that must change.

“He said that he realized that the heart he locked away had… well, that it had belonged to me. That he was afraid that I had gone back, then, instead of forward. And that no matter what, you cannot let it happen again,” she tells him. Her expression is sorrowful. Grieving, but also slightly embarrassed.

In the wake of his silence, she shrugs.

“You were poisoned with red lyrium. Don’t worry about it. I just, didn’t want to break my promise,” she says.

He stares at her face. It feels like he is sinking. But the shape of it, it fits. He recalls brushing large hands, bright as light, around cheeks shaped like those. Soft eyes that regarded him with such gentle admiration. The world would sharpen at the contact, and the face before him would grow more vivid, and distinguished from the faded boundaries of the Dreaming. A spirit. A strange spirit, who spoke in a strange language, and appeared seemingly from nowhere. Who was tied to him; who died for him.

She goes still as he reaches out, and brushes the tips of his fingers across her cheek.

“…Solas?” she asks. Hesitant, and concerned.

He snatches back his touch.

Makes himself look away from her. Look away; out towards the horizon instead. The still-churning sky.

“My apologies. Thank you for the message.”

What will he do?

What _can_ he do?

Her right hand reaches out, and she pats him gently on the arm.

“It’s okay. It’s a lot to take in, even just the concept. If… if you need to talk, I’d like to listen,” she tells him. “No matter what your future self might have thought, you aren’t responsible for all of this. You’ve only tried to help. Just like the rest of us.”

He keeps his gaze away, so that he will not reach out and clasp him back to his chest. Folds his arms behind his back, so that he will not fold them around her. The most he can summon for her, considering that, is the barest nod.

But after a time, she only pats his shoulder, and leaves him be.

He stands there for a long time, it seems. Staring at the sky, and swallowing his screams.


	9. Kisses

He remembers kissing her.

It is not something he has thought of in a long time. In the grand scheme of what they had meant to one another, an atypical touch was not terribly noteworthy. And yet it is a memory of _her,_  and so it is one he has kept close over the years, too. Like a note in a list. _That time I kissed her._

He had been so fascinated with the unexpected results of touching her. With the way the world lit up anew when her hand was in his. He had found that any contact could create that effect, and he had wondered about the forms of contact that were lauded among those who had bodies; those who were most versed in such things.

He had asked her permission, of course. She had mulled the matter over for what seemed to him a very long while; and when he asked what factors she was considering, in hopes of helping her resolve whatever might be giving her trouble, she had seemed to consider her answer to him for a long while, too.

“Kissing is very intimate,” she had said at last. “It denotes romantic interest. They say when you love someone and you kiss them, the world lights up. But the world already lights up when I touch you. I would not want anyone to get… confused.”

Confused? Confused about what, he wondered? But she did not seem able to clarify further. Still, the problem seemed to be that she did not wish for the meeting of mouth-approximate-spaces to be their initial form of contact in such a venture; for the kiss to summon the strange effects of touch. So he had proposed that they hold hands, first, and after some more consideration, she had agreed.

Thus the world had already been vivid and profound when he leaned down and she floated up, and their mouths touched.

It had seemed to him to be contact much like any other, though. When she asked him what he thought, he had admitted as much. Still, all contact with her seemed pleasant, so it was not a source of regret. And it was interesting to touch her with fresh parts of himself when they were already so solid from existing contact; to feel the texture and definition of their forms against one another.

Long after he lost her, he discovered what it was like to kiss with a body. To have warm breath puff across his lips, and a moist tongue press between them, and teeth bite at him, and nerves react to invasive touches and demands. The hasty overtures of infatuated disciples, the demanding attentions of aroused rivals, the gentle invitations of misguided friends; he had experienced them all to varying degrees.

When she kisses him in their shared dream, it is like none of those prior experiences, though. She leans in, staring at him intently before brushing her lips to his. It is almost like that first kiss, between spirits; more pressure than anything else, too brief to stoke up sensations beyond the simple reality of touch. But his mouth tingles, and the point of contact seems to shoot straight through him just the same; the reality of the gesture, and who is making it, and what it means.

It is too brief.

She pulls away, flustered and near to apologetic.

_Come back._

Before he can think twice he takes her hands. They are still smaller than his. The mark flares, and the dream shifts. Haven falters, briefly, trading itself for the memories of sprawling gardens and ornate palace walls. Her eyes widen just a bit, as it all becomes more clear; more steady. But then he kisses her, and they close. Her mouth is warm and soft, welcoming; he pulls her flush to him, and wraps his arms around her. It is intoxicating, he finds. To hold her. To press against her and into her. She is _real,_  and she is kissing him back with as much passion as he can muster, if not quite the same desperation.

When he slides his leg between hers, it occurs to him that there is some reason he should hold back.

He retracts, just a little; but he barely manages it before he tastes her exhalation against his lips, and he sweeps back in. She clutches him, as much for balance as anything at this point, he thinks. Her hands grip the back of his vest, and her hips press into him. His heart hammers against his ribcage; in the end it is only his awareness of the frantic tempo that drags him back towards reality.

Cold, hard, and grey as it may be.

He pulls back.

She blinks at him, a little dazed. And small wonder. She had offered him a kiss, and he had been inches from ravishing her in a dream of a garden thousands of years gone. A dream she does not, he thinks, even know is a dream.

“No. Not like this,” he says. “Not here.”

She is flushed, breathing a little heavily. Her gaze turns to the flowering plants and dappled sunlight around them. Ornate stone benches, and well-tended walls.

“Where are we?” she asks.

“Where we have been since you first spoke to me in the rotunda,” he tells her.

Realization dawns, and she turns, slowly.

“This isn’t real,” she notes.

“Reality is a subject of a debate. This location may be little more than a dream, but your and I are still here. At least, we are until you wake up.”

In the blink of an eye, she is gone.

Pride’s hand tingles from where he had pressed it against her marked one. His lips burn from where they had pressed against hers. He clenches a fist, and lets the dream shatter around him.


	10. Hope

It would not be right, when she does not know.

He thinks for a long while, after the dream is done. He thinks of worlds and ruins, of spirits and bodies, of plans and failures and loss. Of sacrifices. He delves in deep, deep, to his own dreams, and wakes from tattered visions of her face to the reality of it, peering down at him in concern.

The bare tower walls stretch around them. He likes this room. It is empty, and the emptiness suits him. The blank and unyielding walls are a strong reminder of how rigid this world is, and has become, ever since he split it in two. He had expected the Waking world to take on some truly unpleasant qualities.

He had not anticipated the cost to the Dreaming, however. To the ‘Fade’, as it is called now, and its residents.

And he had forgotten, too, that not all eyes saw this world as a prison. A punishment. 

Not that recalling it would have changed much. In the end, he had run out of time and options. He had been forced to use what power he could to cut off the remaining evanuris, and the Blight, and try to forestall the end of the everything, until some other solution could be devised. Only the world had deteriorated further and further, while he struggled to recover.

And now there is this. She is here. Here and whole, and breathing, in a body made of flesh. Not even reborn, but restored through the strange convolutions of time.

 _It is the mark,_  he had told himself.

How could it not be, after all?

He remembers…

The symbol of his power as a Leader of the People. A gift, to channel magic from the dreaming, and contain a piece of him. He had stared at the shifting metallic surface of the orb, and known that there would never be a more secure place. No one would question his diligence towards it. No one but he could truly use it, not without dying. It was the most and least conspicuous hiding spot in the world, and most importantly, it was _power._

He took his star, his broken heart, and he locked it inside the sphere.

And he hoped.

But the darkness only grew.

It grew, and dragged even those who should have known better towards ever-greater madness, until at last Pride knew that it would swallow the world. That this plague of suffering, which held roots in the selfishness of the People, would destroy them all if it could not be halted.

He had slept.

He had searched, in dreams, for an answer.

He had woken only to yet more betrayals, and desperation, and the knowledge that he needed power. Power to change things. Power to go back, to before everything had met with utter ruination. 

To go back to _her,_  too. If he could.

Giving his foci to Corypheus had been an act of desperation. To let those unworthy hands hold it. But it was better, he had thought, than leaving her locked away.

 _It was the mark,_  he had told himself, when they had first spoken, and she had been so…

So like her.

So like the broken heart he sealed away.

But it is not so simple.

She is here, in this world he has already forsaken. Fighting to defend it. Seeing worth in it; and as she does, he cannot help but try and see it how she might. He cannot help but find himself reaching out to people again, as he has not done for years. And they reach back! Not only her, but others, too. Disconnected from all that they are meant to be, lost in this place that is decaying, that is devoured by all the same corruptions which afflicted his own, and yet…

There is beauty in it.

There is _pride_  in it, of the sort she once spoke of; that endures in the face of hardships, and grants people strength where it is needed.

She looks at him.

“Sleep well?” she asks; with just a hint of nervous uncertainty. As if she is not quite sure whether it was all entirely a dream of her own making.

He smiles at her.

“It has been a long time since I have slept quite _that_  well,” he admits. But when she leans in, as if to steal another kiss, he stalls her. A gentle touch to her shoulder, and she hesitates. She lets him sit up, as his mind churns with the ramifications of all of this.

It would not be right, when she does not know.

His gaze locks with hers. Some day soon, then, he will have to tell her. He will have to beg her forgiveness.

He will have to hope she can see a path, where his eyes perceive only darkness.


	11. More Than Friends

“So are there any spirits who are ‘more than friends’?” Blackwall asks.

All at once, then, the air turns icy.

Solas’ steps falter a moment, before they keep going. He gives the warrior a long, hard look.

“Hit a nerve there,” Sera observes; but there’s just the faintest hint of uneasiness to her voice, too.

“If you are referring to physical matters of fornication, I should think the obvious would _be_ obvious. Spirits are not physical, and actions which strongly call upon aspects of the physical world tend to attract demons,” Solas says, at length, sharp and very pointedly dismissive.

“Yeah, see, what goes on with spirits is much more _ethereal,”_ Sera cracks.

“It is more real,” Solas says. Quietly enough that she herself seems to be the only one who hears him. Sera and Blackwall go back to their jokes, as she feels an inexplicable bolt of pain strike through her.

More _real._

So what exists between the two of them, in that case?

A dream?


End file.
